Bottlecaps
by freckleon
Summary: An assortment of old or half-written or nonsensical stories I've got floating around about this lovely universe.
1. Out of the Loop

**_Warnings_**_: Good chance they won't get finished._

**Summary**: An assortment of old or half-written or nonsensical stories I've got floating around about this lovely universe.

**Notes:**

Hi. I'm back. It's been forever, but there's a new book and there are new stories here and TheoMiller is lovely and she started a section for KnR on AO3 (seriously guys come over to AO3 with us. It's lonely). Anyway, it's not the best contribution, but some of these story bits might never see the light of day if I wait to finish them, so here they are. My feelings about these range wildly, but the fandom is so small, it's better to have partial stories than none at all, right? Right? Guys?

If you happen to have suggestions or something, by all means, hit me with inspiration.

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"Your horse just broke down the Mayor's fence."

In a flurry of movement, Michael and Fisk jump up from the table and grab at their outer clothes.

"Get the scotch!" Michael shouts, tossing Fisk's belt in his direction.

"We didn't bring the scotch!" barks Fisk, catching the item with barely a glance.

"What?!" Michael doesn't halt his furious tugging as he yanks on his second boot. "'Twas on the list."

"A lot of things were on the list," Fisk shoots back. "I had to amend."

Katherine resists the urge to roll her eyes. Their squabbling is generally amusing, but it does make a girl feel out of the loop.

"What do we have then?"

"In way of alcohol? Nothing."

"You're the squire!" exclaims Michael distractedly, searching frantically for his jacket. "Aren't you supposed to prepare for something like this?"

"She's your horse!"

"I gave her to you!"

Fisk gets a steady hand on Michael's shoulder and hands over Michael's jacket, which he'd scooped up from the underside of the bed. "When she's drunk, she's still yours."

Interrupting, Katherine announces, "It doesn't matter whose she is, boys, we've still got to find her before she gets us kicked out of town."


	2. Cranky Old Ladies

**Summary:** Fisk and Michael cannot catch a break (because no one likes them). Featuring: Cranky old ladies, Michael getting beat up, and cuddling (strictly for warmth, of course).

**Notes:**

Oh jeez, I think this is possibly the first thing I ever wrote for this universe? First or second. I'm quite sure the third book hadn't happened yet. If at any point you find yourself wondering how a certain thing came about in the story, just hush that little voice in your head and carry on.

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"Get out and stay out if ya know what's good for ya!" screams the old woman, menacingly. She spits at his feet.

Michael will be the first to admit that he's a bit stunned by the outburst. He and Fisk had offered her a fair price for two mugs of lemonade when they stumbled into town. Michael had been sure they would have encountered a stream or lake hours ago, but the road had continued to stretch out flat and empty around them, and their thirst had been mounting.

The small cottage was the first piece of civilization they had run across in days and the water skins had been empty since the morning. The woman had met them at her gate, going on amiably about the sight they made staggering up and offered to sell them some of her freshly made lemonade.

Fisk grumbled about the price, but Michael would've paid much higher for the opportunity to drink from a muddy puddle at that point. The lemonade had been devastatingly good and he had leant his forehead against Fisk's shoulder in weary contentment. Fisk, of course, couldn't resist the opportunity to make a grab for the remnants of Michael's mug.

They wrestled happily for a few moments, the old woman laughing and hollering for Michael to use his height. Michael did, thrusting his hands over his head and grinning at the sight of Fisk straining up to reach them.

Then everything went to hell.

The woman pulled in a sharp breath, her face becoming ugly with anger. "Animal!" she yelled, pointing at Michael. "Bastard! Whelp! Randy come quick!"

Michael and Fisk shared a confused look. Then Fisk's eyes widened and understanding lit them.

"And ta think I showed some kindness towards ya. You'll get no more 'a that in this town, ya hear? Get! Get out!" When she spits it lands on Michael's boot.

Michael lowers his hands in shock. Fisk takes hold of his wrist fiercely and begins backing up. A towering man, who can only be Randy, rounds the side of the house. The woman is still raging and Michael just feels confused. He fights against Fisk's hold and steps towards the pair.

"Please, sir, I'm not sure what we've done to warrant such hostility," he says, hoping to understand the treatment they've been given. Surely they can explain the situation. Fisk starts tugging harder.

"Look at his wrists!" The woman is gesturing harshly at Michael. "Heathen, trash! Get him out of my sight!"

Michael's stomach drops. Of course. He should have realized straight off after the trouble they had in the last town. He feels Fisk turning to open the gate. The mug is still clutched in his hand and, despite the livid look that Randy is wearing, Michael steps forward awkwardly to hand it back. It's the wrong move.

Randy's punch goes directly through the arm that Michael throws up in startled defense. The force of it knocks Michael off his feet and he sprawls on the ground, open to attack. The boot that connects with his ribs is huge and fear lances through Michael. He attempts to twist away, but the next kick knocks the wind out of him. While trying to clear the stars from his eyes, the man moves on to his legs. A vicious kick to the knee causes Michael to curl up in pain. He begins to lose focus and Randy's boots continue to hammer at him.

It takes him a few moments to notice when Randy backs off. He tries opening his eyes and is greeted by the hazy outline of Fisk holding a knife and facing off with Randy. The yelling has stopped. Michael tries moving, but he feels fuzzy and disconnected. His limbs refuse to cooperate. Randy speaks.

"We've got no squabble with you, boy." His voice is deep. "Take your horses and go."

"Not without him, I won't." Fisk's voice is even, but Michael can hear the fear underneath.

"An unredeemed man deserves none of your loyalty. He deserves to be treated like the scum he is!"

For a moment, Michael wishes that Fisk will listen. This can only end badly, but it need not involve them both. He tries speaking, but all that escapes is a moan.

"Michael deserves everything." Fisk is angry, voice low and sharp. "You'll have to contend with me before you lay another finger on him.

The old woman doesn't hide the outrage in her voice when she speaks. "Risk your life for this whelp, will you?"

Michael's body is burning. Black spots cloud his vision.

"Yes."

"Disgusting, disgusting. Almost as bad, ya are," she screeches. "Get off my lawn!"

The voices continue, but they are fading and Michael makes one last effort to move. Pain lances through his chest and left leg, and he groans involuntarily. Hands touch Michael's shoulders. He flinches at the contact.

"Shh shh shh," comes Fisk's voice, suddenly right next to him. "I know Mike, but we've got to move, c'mon." He sounds frantic. Michael wants to tell him that he's fine, but the pain is disorienting. Fisk pushes an arm underneath Michael's body then heaves him up. Michael passes out.

* * *

He wakes up feeling as though days have passed since he last opened his eyes. His body aches viscously and one eye refuses to open fully. He concentrates only on breathing for a few moments, trying not to disturb his bruised ribs. Slowly, Michael begins to take in his surroundings. It's dark, but he can still make out the canopy of trees above him. Flexing his fingers, he discovers that he's lying on a bedroll. The movement causes leaves to crunch underneath his hands. Michael tries to remember how he got here, but the events are blurry and distant.

All he knows is that he is in pain, thirsty, cold, and alone. He moves to sit up and his world goes black again.

* * *

He drifts in and out of consciousness after that. Sometimes he wakes up shivering from the cold, alone. Sometimes there are fingers on his face and soothing words in his ears. Eventually, Michael wakes up to the sun leaking through the trees. He can feel a warm body lined up next to him. Everything looks clear and focused instead of blurry and spinning. The aches in his body have not disappeared, but Michael knows better than to attempt sitting up this time.

"Fisk?" he ventures, his mouth completely dry.

The body lying nearby twitches and rolls towards him. Fisk's face appears above him. He looks horrible. Red lines mar his skin from the leaves he must have been sleeping on. Disheveled and bleary-eyed, he appears confused for a few moments.

Then, "Michael, Michael," he chants, relieved. Fisk ducks his head down on Michael's arm and lets out a harsh breath. "Gods, you had me worried."

"Sorry," Michael breathes, coughing dryly. His throat is scratchy and uncomfortable.

"Yeah, well, you're lucky you look so pathetic or I might not accept that apology." Fisk is running his hands lightly over Michael's body, checking the injuries.

"Thirsty," croaks Michael, coughing again. Fisk looks strained.

"I know, but I haven't found any water yet. I think I know where to look, but I didn't want to leave you for long. There were some rabbits around last night so there must be a creek or lake nearby." He glances at Michael. "Will you be okay if I'm gone for a bit?"

Michael can see that Fisk is worried and he wonders how bad his injuries must be. He wants to know what happened after the fight, but his thirst stops him. He tells Fisk to go ahead and mentions some plants that might help his bruises, reminding Fisk to offer the proper sacrifice.

It feels like hours before Fisk returns, holding a full skin of water and several herbs. Michael gratefully accepts the drink and helps Fisk as best he can to remove his clothing. Fisk is becoming quite good at administering herbs to wounds and the thought irks Michael somewhat.

"Why is it that I am always the one to get beat?" he asks, voice much clearer now that he has had a drink.

Fisk's lips quirk upward before he answers. "Must be something about your face that makes folk want to hit you."

"Mayhap 'tis something about the company I travel with that upsets them," Michael grumbles, wincing as Fisk moves to his knee.

When he's done, Fisk helps Michael move to a more comfortable position against the tree. He pulls the bedroll slowly and positions Michael's back between two large roots. He then moves to lay down himself, looking worn out.

"What happened?" asks Michael quietly. "I assume you didn't head into the town after the kind welcome we received." The bitterness in his voice surprises him. "And I don't remember any forests on our way in. Where are we?"

Fisk props himself up on one arm to look at Michael. He stays quiet for a few moments. "I dragged you here," he confesses, finally. "I could barely carry you out of the yard, so I grabbed a bedroll to put you on. I had to leave the horses and everything else behind. I headed off the side of the road and just kept walking. Eventually we wound up here."

"It must have taken ages to reach this place!" exclaims Michael.

"It's surprising the amount of things you can do when you're desperate," he says softly, no longer facing Michael. The statement makes Michael feel strange and heady.

"But how did you manage to get us away from Randy?"

Fisk looks guilty. "Our things," he says. "I traded the horses and our packs for him to let us go. I'm sorry Michael."

Michael is stunned. "No, no. Don't be sorry."

"It's my fault in the first place!" Fisk barks. "I shouldn't have provoked you, not when I knew your shirt was loose. I hadn't gotten around to tightening the cuffs yet. Now, of course, I don't even have the equipment."

"Stop it!" Michael yells, exasperated. "You are not to blame for this. I'd be dead without you, a hundred times over." He wants to reach out to Fisk, but his limbs are stiff. "Thank you, Fisk."

Fisk has a weird look on his face that Michael can't quite read. He focuses on other things. "So, we have one bedroll and one water skin. Anything else?"

"My incredible survival skills," quips Fisk, eager to leave the tense moment behind. "There is a stream about an hour's walk in that direction." He points further into the woods. "The road is behind us, one direction leading to the town we were kicked out of originally, the other direction leading to the town we were thrown from before we made it ten steps past the first house. We can move closer to the stream once you're feeling up to it."

Of course, he fails to mention what they will do in the long run. The towns are few and far between in this part of the kingdom. The two nearest towns would rather hang them than house them, and Michael is in no state to travel. Besides, it would take much longer without the horses.

Poor Chant, he thinks, unhappily. I'll find a way to get you back.

Fisk begins to list the things they can do in the meantime. Having something to do seems to settle him a bit. He bustles about making beds of leaves, fixing up the herbs on his injuries, and tossing out ideas for how to get some dinner. Michael listens vaguely, wishing he could hunt for them like he usually does. Rabbits and squirrels jump in and out of view, but snares would take time to set up. As for ducks, Michael is already missing his bow. In the end, Fisk tromps back to the stream and returns with three fish.

"It's not much, but it was taking too long." Fisk is exhausted and Michael feels horrible and useless. He instructs Fisk as best he can on cooking the fish, but Fisk has never been much of a chef. They turn out dry and burnt. However, Michael hasn't eaten in ages.

"'Tis the best fish I've ever had," he announces. He tears at the skin roughly with his teeth. Michael doesn't need to look up to know that Fisk is wearing a dubious expression. After dinner, Fisk puts out the fire and aids Michael in pulling the bedroll from beneath him to use as a blanket. Michael insists that Fisk use it for himself, but Fisk ignores him and moves onto his own pile of leaves nearby. Michael is restless and uncomfortable. A chill breeze continues to pass through, causing them both to shiver and the leaves underneath to crackle.

"This would be one of those rare times that I actually miss that damn dog," mutters Fisk, teeth chattering. "He made a good furnace."

"Serves you right for disliking him so much when he was around," replies Michael. "We'll have to make do, I suppose. Come over here." Fisk gives him a startled look and Michael rolls his eyes. "I'm freezing, you're freezing, and we have only one blanket. Just don't kick me in your sleep. I've had quite enough of that lately."

He's slow about moving, but eventually Fisk slides over to Michael's side, tugging a bit of the cover over himself as well. Michael wishes he could maneuver closer to Fisk's body heat, but his chest and leg scream out in pain when he tries shifting. A groan escapes him, sounding pathetic. Fisk huffs out a laugh, already falling asleep. "You'll survive, baby." The statement is meant to mock, but comes out sounding odd. Michael ignores the shiver that climbs his spine. It must be the cold.

* * *

In the morning, Michael awakens to Fisk's light snoring. There is an arm slung low on his stomach, thankfully avoiding the mass of bruises further up. The poultice covering his wounds has been changed and Michael takes a moment to admire the dedication of his squire. Keeping his breathing as even as possible, he begins to go over each injury, cataloging them. Swollen eye, making the left side of his face feel stiff. Badly bruised ribs, but probably not broken. One direct kick to the sternum has made it sore, but it is unlikely that there would be any lasting damage. What worries Michael the most is his knee. The swelling hasn't gone down and even the slightest twitch is painful. He lets out a long-suffering sigh.

The sound disturbs Fisk, who grumbles into Michael's ear. The arm around his stomach tightens, a hand gripping his hip. "Why must you always wake up so early Mike?"

Michael blames the nickname on Fisk's grogginess and graciously chooses to ignore it. "'Tis my superior breeding."

"I hate you. What would you like for breakfast?"

"And I suppose my only options are fish or tree bark?"

"I could probably grunge up some bugs if you prefer, Noble sir." Fisk has his face mashed into Michael's shoulder, so he can feel him smiling. Fisk rises slowly and spends a long while fussing over Michael's comfort before he sets out.

"Could you, mayhap, sit me up a bit?" Michael is dead tired of lying down.

"We're taking it slowly though," Fisk warns, sliding an arm beneath his shoulders. Together they manage to prop up him against the tree without too much wincing on Michael's part, although Fisk continues to eye him worriedly.

"Go on, fetch me my food squire," Michael says, grinning wickedly up at Fisk.

Fisk glowers at him, and then tosses a few sturdy sticks in his direction. "Here," he says. "Make yourself useful." He pulls out his knife and hands it to Michael as well, then heads out.

Michael spends the next few hours whittling some spears out of the sticks. Once that's done, he attempts to stretch his sore body, hoping the pain will make him stop thinking about Fisk's arm on his stomach and the word "baby" on his lips.


	3. Burning Up

**Summary:**

Michael is burning up. Fisk is just trying to maintain his sanity. At least one of them has to, right?

**Notes:**

I'm starting to see a pattern with my stories all taking place in a random forest setting. Because why not. And the animals are always suspiciously absent. And for some reason, Fisk always has to carry Michael to an indiscriminate location to heal him. What. I feel like I must have been having my own fever dream when I wrote this. Pretty sure this was the second oldest document I had floating around? I can't even remember writing half of it.

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Michael is burning up.

He tries to remember what is going on. A rainstorm? No, it isn't raining anymore. Is it? He gasps and twists. His body is on fire. Michael can't even tell if he's awake or asleep.

"Michael. Michael, hold on."

Someone is talking to him. Or maybe he's imagining that.

* * *

Michael is pretty sure he's riding a horse. The gate is choppy and jarring. He wishes he could get down, but the horse keeps looking back at him and snickering.

"What? Why can't we stop?"

"We might if you quit moving," says the horse.

It occurs to Michael, suddenly, that he's the one running. The horse must be on his back. This is cause for some alarm.

"Why are you riding me?" he asks, reasonably.

A snort. That sounds familiar. Perhaps he has met this horse. This would be convenient, as negotiating terms with friends is always easier than with strangers. Michael is exhausted and he and the horse are going to have to work out some other way to travel. He explains this to the heavy weight that is bearing down on him.

"Alright, buddy," answers the familiar voice. "We're going to have a long talk about these hallucinations when you're feeling better."

Now Michael definitely recognizes the voice. Good, reliable Fisk. Whenever Michael is in a jam, Fisk is always there to smooth things over. Fisk will handle this pesky horse.

Michael squints open his eyes that he has only just realized were closed and finds himself staring at Fisk's jaw.

"Am I awake?"

"I sure hope so. Hard to tell though." Fisk's voice is strained. He hitches Michael is his arms and continues walking.

"Are you… are you carrying me?"

"Trying to. I'd love it if you want to walk though." Michael doesn't hear this because he's busy giggling at the picture of Fisk attempting to get anywhere with Michael in his arms.

A sigh. "I'll take that as a no then." Fisk stumbles a bit as Michael continues to tremble with laughter. "Could you hold still then? Would be the least you could do, Noble sir," he grumbles.

For no reason at all, Michael laughs harder. He's forgotten what was so funny, but the giggles aren't dying down. In fact, he's pretty sure they're getting louder.

Fisk stops walking. He shakes Michael softly. "Michael? Going to stop anytime soon or should I be making camp in the middle of the day?"

Michael can't stop laughing. He's afraid that he's starting to sound a bit hysterical. He is hot and dizzy and so, so tired. But Michael can't sleep while he's laughing and this horrible thought just sets him off again. He clutches Fisk's shirt and turns into it, wishing he could stop.

"Whoa, Michael. Hey," Fisk says, alarmed. "What's wrong?"

Vaguely aware that his giggles have transformed into frustrated sobs, Michael hides his face further into Fisk's shirt. He just needs to sleep. Why can't he sleep? "Make it stop," he gasps to Fisk, because Fisk always fixes things. Fisk will do this for him. "Please, take it away. Fix it, fix me, you always make it better" babbles Michael inanely, "I need you to do this, I need you Fisk, please—"

"Shh shh," soothes Fisk. He's sitting now, cradling Michael and rocking him gently. "C'mon, I've got you. You're alright."

They stay like that for a while, Michael buried in Fisk's chest. His gasping sobs die down eventually, leaving him shaking and half-asleep. The last thing he hears is Fisk humming a low, nonsensical tune before he slips into sleep.

* * *

Michael is freezing. Freezing, freezing, freezing.

Something is rushing in his ears, getting louder and louder.

"Turn it down Fisk." Michael doesn't know if Fisk is there, but he trusts his squire to take care of him.

His forehead is covered with something cool and damp and when he tries to move his arms he finds that he's being cocooned by several pieces of material. The shivers are becoming violent. The rushing in his ears continues to roar. Michael opens his eyes to glare at the noise. Running water.

"Quiet down, would you?"

The river gurgles evilly at him and turns up the volume. Pitifully, Michael moans, wishing he had the energy to punch the river right in the face. Apparently, the river is a mind-reader. It twisted angrily in response, building up a massive wave to throw at Michael. He flinches and turns away, rolling against something solid.

"Steady, Michael, it's going to be fine."

"It's freezing," Michael stammers. "I can't get wet in this cold."

"What? You're not getting wet. We're warming you up."

"Not if those waves keep coming. Then we'll both be wet. And cold. Crazy river. Tis probably in league with the horse."

Michael can almost see the horse now, just at the edge of his vision. It is waiting for him. Waiting for the river to drag him in no doubt. Well, he'll show them.

The blankets are difficult to tear away, but Michael manages to untangle himself. He stands in front of Fisk, intent on protecting his squire. Fisk makes a grab for his arms and yells something, probably warning Michael of the treacherous river. When he looks he can see that the river is indeed plotting an attack. The pebbles on the bank are rising and growing. The water churns dangerously in the background. He has to protect Fisk.

Spinning around, Michael grabs Fisk and shoves him backwards into a nearby tree, trying his best to cover Fisk's body. He feels dizzy and ill. Beneath his hands, Fisk is breathing quick and shallow. The resistance he had put up is temporarily lost, leaving him gripping at Michael's shirt.

"Michael," he says, sounding out of breath.

"Cold," Michael replies, pushing into Fisk's warmth. He has him shoved against a tree, but can't seem to remember why. There is sweat glistening where Fisk's neck meets shoulder and Michael has the intense urge to taste it. A warning bell is going off somewhere in the back of his mind, but it's hard to concentrate on.

Fisk lets out a stuttering breath when Michael's tongue makes contact, clutching harder to him.

"Oh God. Mike."

The taste is tangy, just shy of unpleasant, but it makes Michael curious. He wants to explore further, put his mouth on Fisk's neck, his jaw. The dizziness returns and Michael stumbles forward, crashing Fisk tight against the trunk. He lets out a low moan and ducks his head.

Fisk stands frozen. Then, he takes a steadying breath. "Michael, c'mon. We have to warm you up. Back to the covers."

As he helps him back to the bedding, Michael can feel his squire shaking.

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**Notes:**

So there's an end bit written, but it needs quite a few more scenes to bridge the gap. Someday over the rainbow, maybe.


	4. Fake It 'til You Make It

**Summary:** Fisk and Michael have to pretend to be dating .

**Notes:**

Because of reasons. No really. I had some really great reasons that had to do with Rosamund and Michael's father and all sorts of plausible stuff. But most of it never got written, so just take this snippet instead.

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"Boys! Come one out!" shouts Makejoy to the delight of the crowd. Fisk glares at him from behind the curtains, but Gloria shoves both of them fiercely and they stumble onto the stage, reaching out instinctually to steady themselves against one another. A loud hum of 'aws' erupt from the audience at the contact and Fisk pulls away hastily, face burning.

"Well, here they are," announces Makejoy joyfully. He catches sight of the dirty look Fisk is shooting him and lowers his voice to say, "You two have been more trouble than I deserve, so you can damn well play along."

A hand drops to the squire's shoulder and Fisk glances over to see Michael smiling ruefully. "The man has a point," he says and Fisk grumbles out a sulky 'fine.'

"All right. Ladies and gents, boys and girls, and all my fine furry friends! Now that we've got them, what would you like them to do?"

Shouting and hollering erupt from the mass of onlookers and Fisk can feel Michael wince beside him. It's hard to make out distinct words from the jumble, but one in particular is hard to miss. The audience seem to have one thing on their mind and one thing only.

"Kiss!" booms Makejoy, grinning evilly at Fisk. "A kiss you say? Then a kiss you shall have! Go on boys, give 'em your finest."

Heart suddenly pounding so hard he can feel it in his ears, Fisk gulps, keeping his face away from the knight at his side. Unfortunately, that puts the nasty Harris right in his line of view, skulking just at the corner of the stage and watching avidly.

"Fisk," says Michael quietly and Fisk starts to turn from the sight, whispering, "Harris is watching—"

He gets no chance to finish as Michael's lips catch his own in a kiss, sudden and disorienting. The knight pulls away slowly after a few seconds to loud cries from the crowd and Fisk blinks, staring dumbly at Michael's mouth.

Michael quirks him a bashful smile, opening his mouth to speak when he's interrupted. Makejoy doesn't seem to have satisfied his revenge yet, and he roars, "That's your finest?" to the audience, eliciting immediate booing. "Come on boys, these folk paid for a show."

Fisk can feel his cheeks heating again and he curses himself and Makejoy and Harris all in one breath, causing Michael to choke out a laugh. He's still glaring stubbornly at Makejoy when Michael announces, loud enough for the crowd, "I'm afraid my squire is a bit shy when it comes to public displays."

The onlookers titter and coo appreciatively. It's Fisk's turn to choke, eyeing the teasing lift of Michael's eyebrows with affront. "You git."

"Just trying to appease them," Michael tells him, though his mouth is twitching.

Fisk can't just let that slip, can't stand the thought of facing the town tomorrow as they whisper and giggle at his apparent 'timidity.' No, that needs a response.

There is an explosion of hysteric screams when Fisk grabs Michael by the hair and slams their mouths together once again. Makejoy wants a show? Fisk will give him one.

Michael seems a bit shocked at the outburst and struggles to keep up as Fisk pulls all the moves he's scene other actors use to showcase passion on the stage. He throws an arm around Michael's neck, twists their heads about and bends backwards, leaning gratefully on the arm Michael hooks around his waist. Fisk is barely concentrating on the actual joining of their lips, too involved in the demonstration aspect, so he's caught off guard when Michael gets a hand on his jaw and forcibly slows the kiss down. The moment goes from frantic competition and showing off to confusing heat and spine-numbing fervor instead.

Taken aback by his own reaction, Fisk's addled brain informs him that Michael must be trying to outdo him and he immediately responds by licking into Michael's mouth and sucking on his tongue. It's a trick he learned while working with Jack, from a girl he knew for no more than two days. The reaction is just what he's looking for, Michael's knees buckling just enough that those in the front rows notice. There's raucous applause in the background and Fisk nips Michael's bottom lip victoriously.

"Fisk," Michael breathes hoarsely, right before Makejoy yanks them apart to stand between, an arm slung over each of their shoulders.

"Ain't they somethin'? Be sure to buy tickets to the next show and don't forget to tip your actors!" He's still rambling out his finishing speech but Fisk isn't listening. He's staring straight ahead, rigid as a board, and trying not to acknowledge how unbelievably turned on he is right now. He doesn't need to look at Michael to know he is suffering much the same.


	5. Misunderstandings

**WARNING:** Bad things happened, I almost lost my computer, and I don't finish anything. With these powers combined, I've determined it's best to just put this stuff out there unfinished, rather than not put it out there at all. So keep in mind: 99% this is gonna stay unfinished. Also, since I don't write in chronological order, there are missing bits.

**Author's note:** You know that really cliche storyline where someone misunderstands a situation entirely and then the characters act like idiots so that the misunderstanding will magically not get resolved for the entire plot? Yeah, I did one of those.

* * *

When Fisk first meets the guy, he is in no fit shape to be making friendly conversation.

He should be in the theatre, catching up with what the troupe has been doing all summer, but instead he's sprawled out in an empty hallway on the other side of campus, angrily trying to read an article out of the campus newspaper.

_You're letting him win by not showing up_, he tells himself firmly. _It's not like Jack inherited the theatre club in the divorce or anything_.

Unfortunately, he can't convince himself to move and the poorly argued piece he's half-comprehending is just making it worse. He has just reached the part where the student being interviewed argues for the university to move toward open carry gun laws because then "no one will want to mess with me", when someone rounds the corner and promptly trips over his legs.

The guy actually does a decent job of catching himself before his face hits the ground, but he's still lying half over Fisk, who barely registers the ugly sweater vest and long mess of hair before he demands, "What are you doing here?"

An amused expression crosses the man's face and Fisk realizes how accusatory he sounded. "I mean, I didn't expect anyone to come down this way. Can you—"

He jostles his legs for emphasis and the guy pushes himself off, settling against the wall next to Fisk. He motions towards the newspaper. "Have you gotten to the part where the writer claims that students being able to pull guns will help diffuse heated situations?"

Fisk, who had been about to subtly hint at the guy to get lost, groans. "Please tell me that's not true."

"What? You don't agree?"

He appears alarmingly innocent and they end up in a fierce argument for ten minutes about gun laws, until the guy admits that he was just playing devil's advocate in preparation for debate class. This, in turn, sparks another debate about the morality of arguing a case you don't believe in, which leads to the ambiguous position lawyers have in the justice system, which somehow morphs into a vicious battle over the best Chinese food restaurant on campus. At this point, Fisk is grinning ear to ear.

Something is clearly wrong. Conversation is never this enjoyable with strangers. It's not just the conversation that's good—the guy seems genuinely nice, which is refreshing and a pretty big complement from Fisk. He has a naive mindset about some topics, but despite himself, Fisk finds it rather charming. Hell, if you can look past the nightmarish diamond pattern on the guy's vest, he's downright handsome.

Aside from Jack—who he is vehemently not thinking about right now—Fisk has never been this interested in another person so quickly before. The other shoe must be waiting to drop.

This is around the time that the guy's girlfriend shows up.

Fisk is just gearing up to get the guy's info, when he hears a woman's voice call out, "There you are!"

The guy turns and waves sheepishly as she hurries over and then stumbles slightly when she immediately drags him to his feet. "You know," she says, sounding like she's aiming for annoyed and landing somewhere closer to unsurprised. "You make a really lousy boyfriend."

...ah. Of course. He has a girlfriend. A frankly gorgeous girlfriend, with auburn hair pulled back in a ponytail and flushed red cheeks to match.

Fisk has a sudden moment of horrible clarity. This is exactly, _exactly_, how his relationship with Jack started.

* * *

"Back on campus!" says Mr. Coleman cheerily when Fisk enters his office the next morning. Fisk's adviser is a short, thin, middle-aged man with the skin of a 22-year-old. The blonde hair on his head sits in exactly the same spot every time Fisk sees it, as though it's been sculpted on. And he is always, _always_, in a good mood. An _aggressively good_ mood.

Fisk doesn't like him.

This generally wouldn't be an issue for a college student. Last year Fisk saw his adviser a grand total of three times. But, well, he can't argue that it's his own fault for being in a position where he has to meet with Coleman twice a month, every month. He just wishes he'd been assigned an adviser with a little less... optimism? Pizazz? Vitality for life?

"A new year, a new you, right Fisk? I see that you stuck to our plans this summer, and I appreciate the dedication. We're going to have you back on track in no time."

Letting the man ramble, Fisk stares out the window behind Coleman's perfect hair and imagines that he's snug in his room sleeping, rather than across campus at 8:30 in the morning. He tries to hate Jack for it.

The results are depressing.

* * *

Medieval History is a class of almost 300, so Fisk nearly trips up the stairs when he catches sight of a familiar looking sweatervest and mess of dirty blonde hair. The guy is taking a seat near the front, so Fisk quickly climbs the steps and chooses a chair in the middle, where he can easily blend in with the crowd.

He mostly forgets about the guy during lecture, which is engaging despite the class size. He's got ten pages of notes and two recommended books to check out, which he's still scrawling down the names of, when the professor ends the lecture. A minute later, he is going down to ask a couple questions when he notices sweater vest guy doing the same thing and veers abruptly, heading for the doors instead. For a brief moment he thinks the guy may have noticed him, but he manages to exit the building with no issues.

He's actually feeling lucky when he finds an empty row on the bus that pulls up outside the building. Staring out the window is better than trying to keep your legs from sticking into the aisle and tripping people. He leans his forehead against the cool glass, watching three people whip a frisbee back and forth and waiting for the bus to take off. Someone takes the seat next to him, which wouldn't normally be alarming, except his bus-mate then says, "Fancy seeing you here."

The universe is clearly laughing at him, because he _knows_ that voice.

"Are you stalking me?"

"How could I do that? I barely know anything about you."

"You could still be stalking someone without knowing anything about them."

The guy—the guy _with a girlfriend_—from last week squishes closer to give a girl with a huge art project room to pass. "Impossible. I would have to know something about a person to stalk them. Otherwise, how would I locate them?"

"By happenstance, like we did. And then, even though there are 20,000 other people at this school, you would somehow manage to track said person down and squish your giant limbs into the seat next to them on the bus, even though there are plenty of other open seats."

"You sound stressed."

"Having a stalker is stressful."

"Or—and I realize this is going to sound crazy, so bear with me—your 'stalker' could actually just be taking the same class as you because he likes medieval history and is sitting next to you on the bus, because, I don't know, maybe he likes _you_?"

Fisk scoffs over the sound of the bus squealing away from the curb. "No, that can't be right, see, because I have it on good authority that I'm very unpleasant."

"Whose authority?" demands the guy, actually appearing a bit cross, as if he's going to ride off and defend Fisk's honor.

Fisk snorts. "My sister."

"Oh," he says, relaxing. "That doesn't count."

This encounter is very strange. Fisk reminds himself that he does not need another complication in his life, which this man clearly is. He returns to staring out the window, willing the bus to move faster.

"So you have a sister?"

Fisk groans. "Don't you ever give up?"

"I have a sister too," continues sweater vest, as if Fisk hadn't spoken. "She's only just started attending this year. She graduated high school early and got in on scholarship."

He sounds so proud that Fisk can feel himself melting. _Stay strong_.

"Does your sister go here too?"

Fisk glares at the forehead smudge he's left on the window stubbornly.

"I'll bet she's lovely."

"She is not," says Fisk hotly, before he can stop himself. Judith is a pain in the ass and allowing even Fisk's crazy stalker to believe otherwise is a sin. "She's a right twat who's too smart for her own good."

The guy is smiling at him.

"No, really. When she was younger, she wrote a letter to my school explaining that I needed to be escorted to the bathroom or I would spend the whole day in there fiddling with my junk. You laugh, but it was scripted so well that the administration assumed it was my mother and wouldn't let me pee alone for five months."

"Sounds terrifying."

"For a 9-year-old, that's traumatizing."

Suddenly realizing that he's conversing with the person he's trying to avoid, Fisk stands abruptly, almost toppling into the person sitting in front of him when the bus brakes at the next stop. Getting off now means Fisk will have to walk several more blocks, but it's better than staying all cozied up on the bus.

* * *

On Wednesday, Fisk enters the Medieval History room cautiously and checks for sweater-vest-wearing stalkers. Seeing none, he darts into an empty seat that already has people sitting on either side. You can't be too careful.

He has his notes sprawled out in front of him and is absorbed in a book while waiting for lecture to start when a voice says, "You still put your name and date in the corner of your papers?"

Fisk jumps, whipping around while frantically sweeping up his papers. "See, now this is officially stalking."

Sweater vest shrugs. He's wearing a yellow and purple plaid atrocity today that makes Fisk simultaneously want to rip off and burn it or just cuddle the shit out of him. "Must you sit behind me?"

"I like it here."

"You preferred the front on Monday."

A smile breaks across sweater vest's face. "Now who is the stalker?"

"Do you guys want to sit together?" asks the guy to Fisk's left.

"No," says Fisk adamantly, at the same time that sweater vest says, "Yes, please."

Which is how Fisk ends up, once again, with the guy he's avoiding sitting close enough to touch.

"I'm Michael, by the way," says his stalker, reaching out a hand that Fisk is much too busy stabbing his notebook with a pencil to shake.

Michael drops the hand, unbothered by Fisk's very blatant attempts to ignore him. "N. Fisk, N. Fisk... I suppose you're not going to tell me what the 'N' stands for?"

Fisk glares at the neatly printed "N. Fisk - Aug. 23" in the corner of his paper, wishing he had managed to break himself of the habit after primary school. He assumes Michael's going to spend the rest of the class trying to guess increasingly unlikely 'N' names, but Michael goes quiet when the Professor walks in and Fisk quickly loses himself to notes.

After class, Michael hands him the pencil he dropped and says, "You can talk to the professor today."

To which Fisk snaps, "Of course I can," even though he and Michael both know he bailed last Monday to avoid his so-called stalker. "You're not going to wait for me in the hall or anything, are you?"

Michael raises his hands harmlessly. "I have somewhere to be. Scout's honor."

Fisk watches him leave suspiciously, but when he exits the room after asking his questions, there is no repugnant sweater vest in sight.

It takes about two more weeks for Fisk to cave. During those two weeks, Fisk chooses a different seat for every Medieval History lecture and Michael spends the beginning of every class tracking him down. Then one day Fisk places his bag on the seat to his left, and when Michael appears, he removes it without a word. Michael likes to think he grew on Fisk.

Fisk calls him a fungus.

Fisk had remained tight-lipped about his name, but after a full week of Michael calling him 'Neo'—because apparently his sister insisted he watch The Matrix—Fisk had declared him a _goddamned nuisance_ and revealed he simply went by Fisk.

Up until now, Michael has only invaded Fisk's life during history lecture. It's a tentative friendship that Fisk is happy to keep as easy acquaintances. Which is probably why Michael starts small.

"Esten Hall is having a back-to-school celebration tomorrow night."

"Isn't it kind of late for that," says Fisk distractedly, searching for his pencil.

Michael, who has been flipping the pencil between his fingers for the last five minutes, pokes Fisk with it. "Yes. The party coordinator had the flu and refused to hand the responsibility to anyone else."

"Fascinating," responds Fisk, snatching the writing utensil away.

"Free food."

Fisk grunts.

"A giant blow-up bounce house."

"Hm."

"They're auctioning off the lost and found items from last year."

That gets Fisk's attention and Michael seems to seize on it. "Want to come?"

"Where did you say?"

"Eston. It's my first year there."

Fisk looks sour. "Isn't that the couple's hall?"

"I guess," says Michael, shrugging.

Next to him, Fisk hesitates, long enough that he notices Michael sort of tense up. Maybe this is it –Michael's last ditch effort to cajole Fisk into spending more time with him. Which is why Fisk doesn't understand why the next words out of his mouth are, "What time?"

* * *

"I'm not getting in the bounce house, Michael."

Michael attempts puppy eyes.

"What are you, ten? No. Someone has probably already had sex in there."

"Where is your sense of adventure?"

Fisk has been at the celebration for an hour now and so far he has complained about the music, the people, and Michael. He thinks Michael's getting used to the abuse, though. In fact, he seems to think that if Fisk is paying enough attention to you to criticize, it means he likes you.

A megaphone blares to life and someone shouts, "Alright you lot, auction time!"

Fisk perks up and they head over near the sloppy tower of crap someone has built out of last year's lost items. Michael looks as though he finds most of the knick-knacks more amusing than desirable and is wondering why Fisk seems so interested when they get to a small stack of spiral journals.

"We're starting at one dollar for the likely illegible musings of a person you've likely never met and likely never will! Do I have one dollar?"

Fisk hand shoots up and Michael watches, amused, as he wins the journals for a whopping four dollars.

"What's so special about them?"

Fisk shrugs. "I just... really like reading the thoughts of people who aren't thinking about critique or publication. Most of them will likely be class notes, but sometimes they have interesting half-written essays or diary entries." He shrugs again, feeling kind of embarrassed.

Michael looks charmed. "That is really cool. I've never thought about it that way."

After that, Fisk relaxes a bit. He and Michael find a soft patch of grass and skim the journals, giggling over the few bits of interesting information they discover. After about half an hour, Michael looks up to find Fisk with his hands loose in his lap, just staring at him.

Fisk blinks and looks away hurriedly, sighing loudly. "Still want to do that stupid bounce house?"

* * *

Fisk can't believe he's doing this. Judging by how unkempt Michael looks, flushed and sweaty while attempting to rebound off the back wall and tackle Fisk to the floor, Fisk probably appears twice as ridiculous.

He can't really bring himself to regret it, though, even when Michael finally succeeds in knocking him over and they end up out of breath, laying side-by-side. Fisk is feeling a rush of painful fondness for Michael's hopeful, happy smile, and he's pondering why he ever wanted to resist him when a small, redheaded person launches themselves at Michael.

"Rosa," exclaims Michael, laughing. "I thought you had that future law enforcement meeting until 9?"

"I cut out early. It was devolving into cat fights." She cuts her eyes over to Fisk and gives him a friendly smile. "Who is this?"

Fisk gives her a weak wave when Michael introduces them, kicking himself internally. He'd actually managed to forget Michael's girlfriend for a few hours and now he gets to feel like a jerk for wishing she didn't exist.

The excuse he uses to make himself scarce is so stupid that they stare at him awkwardly for a beat, before 'too-nice-for-his-own-good' Michael smiles and says he'll see him in class tomorrow.

Fisk walks the half hour back to his dingy apartment and stares at his phone, thumb hovering over 'Jack' in the contact list for far too long. With a massive groan, he tosses the toxic device on the cardboard box acting as his end table and face plants in the bed.

* * *

If Michael thinks Fisk is a big weirdo for taking off last night, he doesn't show it in class on Friday. He's more curious if Fisk found anything else interesting in the notebooks he bought. Fisk, who hasn't opened them since but doesn't want the conversation to die, winds up telling him about an open mic he's attending for his poetry class.

"I'm not participating, mind you," Fisk tells him, at the look of delight that crosses Michael's face. "We're going to criticize only."

"I'm sure it will be terribly difficult for you," Michael says with mock sincerity.

"Just because I remind you on a weekly basis how ghastly your wardrobe is—"

"And my handwriting, and my pronunciation of 'caramel'..."

"—doesn't mean I enjoy criticizing everyone."

"Does that make me special?"

"You're special, alright..."

Michael flicks a pen at him and they head for the bus.

* * *

Halloween hits too fast for Fisk's taste. Two months, and what does he have to show for it? An unfortunately blemished record in keeping away from Jack. A 'B' in philosophy because his teacher considers friendly discussion a distraction (he was _not_ being argumentative). Exactly zero calls to his sisters. And an unrequited crush he has no hope with.

Except, well, that last one isn't so much a bad thing. Michael's less of an unrequited crush and more of a best friend now, which is new for Fisk. He still gets that little lurch in his stomach when he catches Michael staring at him, but he's getting better at ignoring it, better at spending time with Michael and not wishing it were something else.

"Plans for October 31st?"

Today, Michael appears determined to learn some new pen twirling trick he saw on Youtube. Fisk has had to deal with the clack of pen on desk every ten seconds for the entire lesson. He's about at wits end.

"Don't you have notes to be taking," he snaps. The professor has been fiddling with the projector for the past five minutes and Fisk is still slightly behind in all the things he wants to jot down. Michael hasn't touched his pen to paper all period.

Michael shrugs, picking the utensil up for the thousandth time. "I remember better if I just listen."

"Bully for you," mutters Fisk, rewriting a section of his notes that is currently unreadable before he forgets the content.

Clack. "So, Halloween?"

Fisk sighs, still transcribing. "Going to some party with the people in my creative writing group."

Michael makes a small noise that could easily be read as either disappointment or disinterest. Fisk decidedly does not waste time interpreting it. His creative writing group has proven to be a pretty good bunch of people, unlike last year, and he had caved pretty easily to their pleas of being the fourth for their group costume idea. Planning out the costume had been pretty fun, although it made him miss theatre enough that he stood in the back of the auditorium for four hours the previous Saturday, just watching a rehearsal. Jack had been in top form, not that Fisk noticed.

Fisk has just enough time to explain the group costume before the professor finally gets his video to play.

* * *

The night of Halloween, which graciously fell on a Friday this year, Fisk gets a simple "Happy Halloween" text from Michael. He responds in kind, wrestling with the gloves of his costume to hit the right keys on his phone. It comes out as "hsppy hal;oweeb"—close enough.

Kara, the leader of Fisk's little group, steers them towards her sorority and the promise of games and beer. The building isn't as packed as Fisk feared when they arrive and the rooms are decently lit and clean (for now). Two hours in and Fisk is pleasantly buzzed, wearing a 3rd place ribbon pinned to his sleeve and listening to the truly horrible karaoke attempts of Kara and half her sorority sisters on the song "Moves Like Jagger".

The beeping noise that signifies a received text has Fisk digging through his jacket to find the little phone.

_What's another word for elephant? It's important._

Fisk stares at Michael's text on the screen, then mentally shrugs. _Pachyderm_, he supplies.

_And is it 'elephants never forget' or 'elephants always remember'?_

_...does it matter?_

_Come on Fisk, time is of the essence._

_Always remember_, he sends, though he has no clue.

A small, friendly looking girl that Kara had previously introduced as Kathy approaches Fisk now, telling him she's in dire need of a duet partner. Emboldened by the low bar the previous singers set, Fisk swallows down the 'no thanks' he had sitting on his tongue and allows her to tug him onto the makeshift stage.

_See Jack?_ he thinks._ Making friends, all on my own._

They don't put anyone to shame, both of their voices cracking hilariously on the loud notes, but Kathy knows all the words to "Not Alone" from A Very Potter Musical and pumps her fists in delight upon learning that he does as well. It's a good night.

* * *

For the first time in their short friendship, Michael actually appears upset and Fisk finds himself increasingly uncomfortable with the sullen slouch of the taller man's shoulders as class goes on. When lecture is over, Michael gathers his things (a small feat considering he hadn't even opened his bag) and exits the row without a word. Fisk is so stunned by this change in demeanor that the little bubble of disquiet in his gut blossoms into outright worry as he shoves his notebooks into his pack and hurries out of the lecture hall.

To his surprise, Michael hasn't taken off. He's just outside the building, hands in pockets and glaring at the sidewalk as though it just insulted his sister. Fisk approaches cautiously.

"I'm fairly certain it's not actually the sidewalk that you're upset with," he begins, feeling off-kilter by how much the unhappy slant of Michael's mouth affects him.

Jaw tightening, Michael turns away from the cement and squints into the setting sun. Fisk is flailing for something else to say—a disconcerting experience that he does not enjoy—when Michael takes a deep breath and finally looks at him.

"Do you want to get some food? I could use some company."

"Yes," answers Fisk immediately, even though this is usually the point of the day where they hop on a bus and then part ways, Michael to some club meeting and Fisk to his dorm before the food court closes.

He was supposed to meet with his writing group in an hour, but the relieved little slump Michael's shoulders take convince him this is more important. Besides, he hasn't missed a meeting yet, so he barely feels guilty shooting a text to Kara and then pocketing his phone. "Where to?"

After Fisk flat-out refuses to eat at Moe's—half because it briefly switches Michael's mood from angry to astonished and half because screw that restaurant and their obsession with lime—Michael takes him for Thai cuisine instead and insists on paying for both. Fisk buying them ice cream after doesn't exactly put them even, but it's a start.

Fisk unabashedly likes vanilla best, a thing which also seems to astonish Michael, whose own multicolored disaster in a bowl is making Fisk uncomfortable just to look at. They slurp at the dessert quietly while wandering aimlessly around campus in the twilight.

Out of the blue, Michael says, "My father is an asshole." He follows this announcement with such an abruptly contrite expression that Fisk can't help but snort out laughter and ice cream both.

"Gross," he says, wiping his chin. "Warn a guy."

"I didn't—he's not—"

"Michael, if you say he's an asshole, I would bet good money it's probably true. Is he what has you in such a funk?"

This is how Fisk gets the abridged version of "How to stifle your children 101, the Sevenson version". Michael, as it turns out, has a control freak of a father.

* * *

Fisk has fallen back in with Jack. Fisk is refusing to go home for thanksgiving and Michael doesn't really like to spend holidays with his folks, so they have their own thanksgiving, where they go out to eat at a chinese restaurant buffet and then they get drinks and then they go back to Michael's because Rosa returned home and get more drunk and watch foreign movies on television that Michael actually somewhat understands but pretends not to because they both like to imagine ridiculous scenarios for the characters. It's too late for Fisk to go home, then, and too cold, so Michael insists he stay, but Fisk feels weird about it. Mike insists he take the bed. Rosa's is covered in her junk from when she was packing to leave and Mike is too lazy to clear it, so they're both sitting on his bed and Fisk keeps thinking, "this is where they have sex" and then they both fall asleep there and Michael wakes up to Fisk drooling on him, all cuddled up in his arms and has a very deep yearning for him and almost ALMOST kisses him awake, but then he sees a hickey on Fisk's collar and remembers that Fisk was all vague about a boyfriend or maybe Fisk has already drunkenly told him of Jack, so he knows that's who Fisk is running around with again and is totally disapproving of it, which is a sense of tension between the two of them. Fisk has been fucking Jack cause he felt driven to it and he knows it's a terrible idea, but does it anyway.

* * *

"You wanna get shitfaced?"

They don't go to Michael's bar because Michael's not in the mood to chitchat with the staff. Harry's is close enough and the holiday weekend means they don't have to search for a table. Michael goes harder first, ordering a double shot of jack and downing it like a drowning man, but by the end of the night, it's Michael keeping Fisk upright when they make their exit.

Fisk would be impressed, but Michael guides them stumbling into a bench a couple blocks away and Fisk figures the man is still definitely feeling it. They watch the campus quietly for a while, barely anyone passing while they do. It's strange to see the area so empty.

Abruptly, Fisk says, "Jack made me stronger. I didn't know how to be alone and Jack did it in a shitty way, but he got me through."

If Michael's face is anything to go by, he doesn't understand. He looks more like he wants to find Jack and strangle him. Fisk has no doubt that Michael could take Jack, but believes in Jack's ability to stay hidden, so isn't all that worried about it.

Instead Fisk cuddles closer, because he's cold and Michael is a beacon. Michael lets him, conforming around Fisk like he was made to do it, a thing which Fisk's drunken mind is inordinately pleased about.

"I think you were probably pretty strong all on your own," whispers Michael, pressing his face to the top of Fisk's head.

Younger Fisk thought the world was filled with opportunities and excitement. He was soft, not strong, and Fisk can't help but feel anger at himself for ever being so willfully stupid. He tells Michael, who only holds him tighter.

They sit there in the cold for a while, Fisk breaking the silence every so often with another wobbly, mumbled confession, until Michael's hold is so tight that Fisk can feel every point of pressure as though the two heavy jackets between them do not exist.

Eventually Michael shifts them, says, "C'mon, we're going home."

Fisk is too drunk to remember why, but that phrase alone makes him unbearably sad and he shoves away from Michael and wraps his arms around himself, only allowing Michael to touch him when he stumbles.

"Home" apparently means Michael's apartment again, which, Fisk realizes fuzzily, makes sense. He's never brought Michael to his own place. Michael lets them in and begins removing layers while Fisk stands awkwardly at the door, still hugging himself and feeling despondent.

The room is a bit cluttered from the night before and Michael busies himself with moving things around and fluffing pillows until Fisk realizes that he's avoiding Fisk. It's annoying, even though Fisk had just done the same thing to him on the walk here. Now that they're in the familiar room, Fisk wants to be closer so badly, he feels sick with it. Walking through the doorway felt like permission, like the cozy little room is outside of time and consequences.

It is as if they're existing on two different planes of existence. Parallel to one another, but never exactly on the same page. Fisk chokes as he watches Michael roll up a green dress that was sprawled on the floor and toss it in a laundry basket. Rosa's laundry basket. His _girlfriend's_ laundry basket.

"Fuck," Fisk breathes shakily and Michael sighs and approaches him, starting to unbutton his jacket.

"You're a useless drunk," Michael tells him. He sounds funny, but that could be because of the alcohol.

Fisk shivers when the jacket comes off, managing to stumble out of his boots without injury only because Michael steadies him. They sway together, arms clutching and faces coming dangerously close.

"Why're you _you_," Fisk mumbles, because they're near enough to share breath and it's still not close enough. Blearily, Fisk focuses on the small scar on Michael's jaw, thinks about putting his mouth there. "You make me weak."

Michael jerks, pulling away. "We can't all be Jack," he says in a flat voice, and guides Fisk to the cool sheets.

Sleep is challenging, Fisk waking in cold sweats several times before his drooping eyelids manage to carry him off again. The bed smells like hot chocolate and Fisk has a strange, disjointed dream about pouring cup after cup of the liquid only to misplace it immediately after. He never gets to drink any.

After what feels like years, he opens his groggy eyes to find the clock blinking 5:44 at him. The room is empty of Michael, though a pile of blankets and clothes that vaguely resemble a nest reveal where he slept. Fisk trips out of the room and down the hall to the toilets, wiping sleep from his eyes, only to freeze in the hallway, just outside the restroom.

There's a familiar voice echoing quietly from beyond the swinging door, saying, "It's driving me absolutely bananas, Rosie. Last night I almost... never mind, it doesn't matter. I'm an idiot."

Silence, and then Michael gives a cracked laugh.

"I know, I'm such a mess. When are you coming home?" Quietly, intimately, he adds, "I miss you."

Fisk bolts.

* * *

Fisk doesn't leave his room for two days, gorging on microwaved pasta and vegetables straight from the can. He writes a paper for his philosophy course and another for medieval history that isn't due for over a week.

Michael leaves him exactly two texts and one voicemail. It's less than Fisk was expecting. The voicemail starts with a couple beats of silence, and then Michael says in a weirdly mechanic voice, "Your gloves are at my place, when you want them."

He wanted them the morning he was walking home, he thinks sourly, remembering the biting cold. By the time he realized they weren't in his pockets after leaving Michael's, he had not been willing to turn back. They were just stupid gloves, ones he had cut the tips of the fingers off for better access. They weren't even that warm.

Besides, he tells himself. Michael will no doubt bring them to him on class Monday. It would be silly to go back and pick them up now.

The texts are fairly generic as well. One _where are you_ and one _home okay?_.

Fisk answers the second with a _yeah_ because he's not enough of an asshole to let Michael think he's dead in a ditch somewhere.

He deliberately doesn't dial Jack's number eighteen times before he breaks down and calls home.

On the other end of the line, Anna sounds breathless. "Maxwell residence," she wheezes, amid the shrieks and giggles in the background.

"...It's me."

"Nonny!" She sounds delighted, and also like she's possibly wrestling with a small child or two. "Hang on sweetie, let me get to a different room."

She only uses 'sweetie' on him when she's in blissful mom mode and it makes Fisk miss his own mother so much it's like a punch to the gut. He's glad for the minute it takes Anna to remove herself from the commotion, allowing him to recover.

"Okay, Nonny," she says, and he can hear the click of a door. "Everything alright?"

"Of course," responds Fisk immediately, and then shakes himself. Anna knows he doesn't call unless something is wrong. "How are the kids?"

"Riled up. Max has them playing Simon Says."

"Simon Says has them riled up?"

"It's a variation. I don't know, but it involves a lot of running and Thomas is wild for it."

That makes Fisk smile, because Thomas is so rarely anything but quiet and serious when Fisk visits. "And Becca?"

"You know Becca, she's wild for anything." Anna sighs and says his name in a way that makes Fisk want to spill everything he's thinking on her like a messy child.

Picking at his pants, Fisk murmurs, "I don't know. I feel like I'm messing things up again."

"Is Jack—" she starts to ask sharply and Fisk winces, rushing to cut her off.

"It's not about him. Well, it's sort of about him, but I'm dealing with it. I know what I'm doing this time around." Because he can't bear to hear her say his name with that disappointed little sigh of hers again, he continues with, "What are your plans for winter break?"

There is a pause, and Fisk can practically hear his sister deciding whether she'll give him the out. Eventually, though, she says, "Actually, we were thinking of camping. Max has a friend with a cabin in the mountains—it's only a six hour drive from here."

"The kids will love that."

"We thought so." She waits a beat. "There's room for more, if you don't have plans..."

Fisk feels a fierce rush of love for her in that moment, for making him feel welcome, while at the same time giving him the easy out. He ponders it a moment—close proximity to Max for a few days, but hundreds of miles from campus... Besides, he hasn't seen the munchkins in months. Only one more question needs to be answered...

"Will Judith be there?"

* * *

They make up.

* * *

"Owning a car is for the debt-free of the world, Michael."

Michael, who always gets a deep little crease between his eyes when Fisk brings up money, readjusts the pitchfork on his shoulder. "So your plan is… hitch-hiking?"

"It's not hitch-hiking," argues Fisk, tossing the muck-bucket on the floor to slide the stall door open. "We're all in college here; we all need to get somewhere. There's bound to be somebody heading my direction. I offer some recompense and they offer a passenger seat. Even if they don't take me to the doorstep, Annie will pick me up anywhere within an hour or two vicinity."

The stall smells worse than Lissy's room did as a small child—no small feat considering Lissy had an odd habit of hiding little stores of food around room. Exposed and unrefrigerated, the food would soon turn to rot. It makes Fisk's nose wrinkle just thinking of it.

Or maybe that was the manure.

"Remind me again why I'm here?" grumbles Fisk, trying to retrace the unfortunate steps that have led to his being roped into mucking stalls on a muggy Saturday afternoon.

"For the love of Pete." There's a sigh in Michael's voice as he sidles past Fisk. "If I'd known you were going to be such a whiner…"

* * *

Michael ends up driving them both, of course.

* * *

Thomas has not left Michael's lap for an hour now. Fisk can't hear the words, but the little boy has been murmuring at a pretty constant rate, with Michael only providing prompting noises every so often. Chubby arms are raised towards the fire, drawing sleepy figures in the air. Fisk is mesmerized.

"It's so cute, I'm going to explode." Lissy has angled her chair closer to Fisk, and she's staring in the same direction. "Tommy never gets this way with strangers. Does your friend have little brother?"

Fisk shakes his head, watching Tommy grab Michael's hand with squashy little fingers. "He is the little brother. Younger sister, but only by a couple years."

Lissy makes a humming noise. "He's gonna make a great dad."

She's right, of course. Fisk used to think there was nothing in the world that would make him want children, not after those scary few years following his parents' deaths. Then Becca was born. Wailing and screaming from the moment she arrived. Since then, watching his sister's kids grow... well, Fisk is firmly in the arena of 'maybe'.

* * *

With Uncle Rick and Aunt Stacy showing up out of the blue, Anna is scurrying around attempting to find them room to sleep. She and Max share the master suite upstairs, which Stacy refuses to take. In the basement, Becca and Thomas claim one bed while Lissie and Trevor have been stuck with the other. Max had flat out refused to allow them to share a bed, a move which has Anna written all over it.

The main floor has two rooms, each with a queen, which Fisk and Michael have been occupying. Fisk had been assuming he'd be moving to the couch, which was fine as long as people didn't want to use the TV in the early hours, but of course Michael beats him to the punch, offering to sleep there to a grateful Anna and then absolutely not allowing Fisk to switch.

"You're a guest," says Fisk, exasperated. "You're supposed to get the _guest_ room."

"I tagged along last minute," states Michael calmly, moving his things to Fisk's room so that he won't have to bother Rick and Stacy in the morning. "The couch is the least I can do."

Fisk is all geared up to argue more. Just the sight of Michael's jaw clenching resolutely makes Fisk itch with the need to refute his claims, whatever they are.

* * *

Only then people end up switching and of course Michael and Fisk share a bed. Of course.

* * *

"Goodnight Michael," breathes Fisk into the space between them.

An indeterminable time later, Fisk wakes to sensation of someone crawling over his legs and jerks, causing the person to roll into Michael. He cuts off his shout when he recognizes Becca's nervous giggle. "Uncle Fisk," she announces, at a volume that would have woken either of them if they hadn't already been roused. "Tommy wants to sleep here."

Sure enough, when Fisk's eyes adjust, it's to find Tommy curling up at Michael's side, eyes wide and round. "What's wrong?"

"Lissy told us there are ghosts living downstairs and they take over your body if you've been a bad kid."

Becca repeats the story matter-o-factly, but Fisk can feel her shaking and cuddles her close, sharing a look with Michael. "And did Lissy tell you what the ghosts do if you've been a good kid?"

"No," whispers Thomas, clutching pudgy hands in Michael's sleep shirt.

So Fisk and Michael spend the evening spinning a tale of friendly ghosts and evil aunts who eventually get their own.

* * *

More mountain shenanigans.

* * *

Michael's eyes haven't left Fisk from the moment they climbed into bed. Unable to help himself, Fisk is staring back.

"I'm going to sleep on the floor," whispers Michael, fervent gaze not wavering.

"You don't need to sleep on the floor," says Fisk automatically.

Michael shakes his head minutely, but otherwise doesn't move. "I think I should really be on the floor."

Fisk should let him. He should really, really let him. Instead he puts a hand out and sets it on Michael's chest. Lightly, barely enough pressure to warrant intent. There's a muffled ringing in his ears and he could swear that nothing exists beyond this tiny little bed. For several long moments they breathe together, Fisk fixated on where his palm touches Michael, and then Michael shifts, rolling over Fisk and ducking in to capture his lips in one smooth movement. Fisk opens to him easily, it's all so fucking easy, and the ringing gives way to harsh breaths and the rustling of sheets.

* * *

Holiday decorations are still strewn around campus, tangled in trees and littering the sidewalks, when Fisk's adviser hits him with the next step in his "shaping-up" year.

"Volunteer! Not only is it a way to give back to society, it will also fill the void of your abandoned theatre club."

"I don't need to fill a 'void'."

"Clubs look good on resumes, Fisk. Especially volunteer clubs. And, if you're diligent, you can get worthy references this way. Win, win, win!"

It's been over six months and Fisk still hasn't warmed up to Mr. Coleman's peppy demeanor. "And I suppose you have just the club in mind?"

"You got it. It's called Circle K, they meet every Wednesday evening in the basement of Wylie. Here's a flyer with their information." Mr. Coleman softens for a moment, dropping the manic positivity. "Just give it a shot, Fisk. If it's really not your thing, we'll find something else. Okay?"

Fisk can't exactly argue when Coleman's being rational, so he takes the flyer. Besides, Wylie is right next to his medieval history building and the meeting starts shortly after class ends. Fisk can appreciate convenience.

At the end of class on Wednesday, Fisk tells Michael he has something to do for his professor and leaves the guy to ride the bus alone. Michael makes a funny face, but walks over to the bus stop anyway, giving an awkward little wave. Fisk shrugs off his weirdness and enters Wylie, looking for the room he remembers from the flyer. He must have mixed up the numbers in his head, though, because the first room he approaches is dark and empty, with no one waiting around in the hallway. He backtracks and heads down a parallel hallway, figuring he'll just search for an active room. Within moments, he can hear the muffled clamor of a large group of people behind closed doors and follows his ears until he reaches a room with a sign that says, "Circle K Meeting. Come on in!"

Pushing open the door causes the volume to skyrocket and Fisk winces, surveying the room quietly. If not for the green sweatervest with a zigzag of purple across the chest catching his eye, Fisk might have looked right over the guy, lost in the throng of people around him. But Fisk knows all of Michael's terrible sweaters and the tell-tale Barney colors have him honing right in—it's definitely Michael.

But why is Michael here?

So Fisk approaches the group, skirting around people to get to the front where they're standing. He stands directly behind Michael and waits patiently for his conversation to end. It does when one of the girls in the group take notice and point to him, causing Michael to turn around.

"Hi there," says Fisk in a neutral voice. Michael's face lights up and then transitions hilariously into an expression better fit a child with their hand caught in a cookie jar. Busted. "Shouldn't you be on a bus?"

Michael rides the bus with him every day. It takes the bus 10 minutes to get Fisk from class to his dorm. Fisk gets off the bus before Michael. He can do the math.

Rubbing the back of his neck, Michael avoids his eyes, giving a funny sounding laugh. "About that..."

"Harry Potter!" A familiar looking girl has popped up between them, grinning at Fisk brightly. Though he can't remember her name, he recognizes the bespectacled girl as his duet partner from Halloween last semester and grins. "Ginny, as I live and breathe. I prefer to keep the Harry Potter thing quiet, if you don't mind. Celebrity status is such a difficult cross to bear..."

She laughs. "I suppose I'll have to cancel my plans for an impromptu encore performance." She points at Michael. "My brother's the better singer, anyway."

"Brother?" says Fisk, astonished. Noticing that Michael is watching their interaction, perplexed, he directs the next statement at him. "I think we're having a small world moment right now. This is the famous Kathy?"

"The one and only," answers Michael, still confused. "Harry and Ginny? Are you both in possession of alternate identities or am I missing something?"

Now Kathy is growing lost, looking between them and saying, "Wait, you two know each other?"

Fisk has to laugh. He nearly forgets about questioning Michael while the three of them work out how they know each other, and then the meeting begins when an old woman with a booming voice tells them to shut up and sit down. Maybe Michael only just joined the club?

He might have accepted Michael being a fairly new member as an explanation, except when the old woman calls on the Vice President to take over, Of course, just as Fisk as accepted this as a suitable conclusion, the old woman calls on the Vice President to take over and Michael stands up to address the room. While Fisk is not at all surprised that Michael is the Vice President of a volunteer club, this means that he had to have been attending the meetings for a while. Quite a while. At least a semester. Maybe they used to meet on Thursdays?

"Why do you look like you're trying to do complicated math in your head?"

Kathy has leaned forward from where she is sitting in the row behind Fisk to whisper this, making him startle slightly. It's reminiscent of the first day Michael talked to him in Medieval History last semester. He gives her a look that he hopes conveys he is not pleased by this discovery while grumbling, "You really are Michael's sister."

"Please," she says. "I'm not nearly so obstinate."

This makes Fisk guffaw. He knows firsthand how stubborn Michael can be. "So how long have you two been in Circle K?"

"This is only my second meeting, but Michael's been involved since his first semester. So a year and a half? Did he convince you to join like he did me?"

"My adviser heavily recommended it, actually."

* * *

So Fisk becomes friends with the whole gang. Somehow he is still under the impression that Michael and Rosa are dating.

* * *

"Have you met Rosa?"

"Yes," says Fisk, in his very best neutral voice.

"Back when Michael first started crushing on her, she barely gave him the time of day. He was really awkward around her, polite to the point of stiffness. As a kid, I think Rose found him quite boring. I thought he was great, because he would read with me and play cops and robbers, or knights and rogues, but with Rosa he clammed up. He was so stubborn though. Told the whole family she was the love of his life." She lowered her voice. "Between you and me, I think he was so head over heels for her because Michael tried to fight some kid in elementary school after the bully was picking on this boy with a lisp. He got a fat lip for his trouble, and note to our dad which didn't go over well at all. Anyway, the next day Rosa not only managed to get the bully to apologize to the kid, but befriended him too. Michael said they used to paint huge chalk murals on the blacktop every recess until the boy moved away."

Kathy stretches, yawning. "Anyway, it took them a long time to get to where they are today."

Fisk follows her warm gaze to where Rosa and Michael are sitting on the couch, his legs slung over her lap. They're both laughing at something Kara is telling them, Rosa doubling over to hide her face in Michael's knees while she giggles. A jolt of longing hits Fisk and he turns away brusquely, distracting Kathy with another round of Rummy.


End file.
